


Dreizehn

by Wallissa



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M, Romance, Valentine's Day Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:14:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22722286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wallissa/pseuds/Wallissa
Summary: Napoleon would prefer to spend Valentine's Day in Paris, but sadly, the gang is stationed in Berlin.It doesn't stop him from finding a very unique gift for Illya, one that may betray just a little too much of his own feelings.(a mix of and handwritten pages, the veelvet-warm scent of roses and a pack of cigarettes no one smokes)
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 18
Kudos: 168





	Dreizehn

All things considered, Napoleon had hoped they’d be in Paris by now. What can he say? He’s that hedonistic breed of romantic, the champagne-bubbly, truffle-sucking kind. Early mornings with croissants and lipstick kissed on the rim of a warm coffee cup at the side of the road, sitting on delicate chairs and watching the wind-swept, Burberry-clad people rush past in waves of Chloé and Chanel.

They are, however, in Berlin.

When Napoleon opens the window, cool-fresh air brushes through his wet hair and the chatter of a radio station wafts up from an open window below. The trees outside are still bare and black and through the underbrush of their branches, he can make out the graffiti smeared on the grey walls on the building across the street. The windows are a mismatched patchwork of different curtains and here and there some leftover snowflakes sprayed on glass.  
His own curtains are mustard yellow and thick-coarse, the scent of smoke woven through the fabric. In a Pavlovian response, Napoleon reaches for the pack of cigarettes Gaby left on the windowsill last night.

Down on the street, two groups of men pass each other and laughter-drenched chatter rises up to his window. Napoleon leans against the window frame for a moment to watch them, rolling a cigarette between his fingers. A knock on the door interrupts him. 

Napoleon turns, steps away from the window. His cuffs are still unbuttoned and his hair free of product, falling into his face. He’s also barefoot, which makes the short walk to the door a journey of coarse-warm carpet and cool-smooth parquet. By the door, he hesitates just out of habit, but it’s just them and they’re all in the same flat, so there’s no real need to pick up the gun on the side table. 

When he opens the door, there’s roses. Velvet-soft, dark red. There’s also Illya, pushing past him to step into the room. “Cowboy. Good morning. Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Napoleon blinks, taken aback, confused. The cellophane the flowers are wrapped in is cool and crinkles in his grip. Up close, the roses have a sweet-heavy, expensive scent. “I – Thank you.”

Illya nods, wanders over to the window to close it. He knocks his knuckles against the glass. “No good, keeping the window open with your wet hair.”  
He himself looks like he’s been up and about for a while, dressed in dark jeans, a soft-looking, moss green shirt and his brown leather jacket. “You’ll get a cold.”  
Napoleon walks towards the desk next to the wardrobe to put down the flowers. “No need to worry. I – Did you get Gaby flowers, too?”

“Gaby? No, she wouldn’t like them. She’s not a flowery person, yes?” Illya’s fiddling with her cigarettes, which reminds Napoleon that he’s still holding his. He puts it on the table next to the flowers.

“I suppose not.”

Here, Illya looks up, sniffs a little, and freezes in his movements. “What? It’s not good? I thought you’d like them.”

“No, no, I do. I mean, yes. Thank you.” Napoleon, uncomfortably out of his element, fumbles with his cuffs. “It’s very thoughtful. I just didn’t expect –“ 

“What? No present for you? That would be ridiculous. We’re all the same team, aren’t we? What would that be, not getting you anything?” Illya frowns, so Napoleon hurries to explain.

“It’s not that, Jesus. No, I mean, I have something for the both of you too, of course. It’s just –“ Flowers are just so _romantic_ , right? And Napoleon is more than sure that those implications don’t change beyond the Russian border. Although they _do_ love flowers, so maybe he’s reading too much into it.  
“Never mind. Thank you. What did you get her?”

Illya seems to relax now and wanders over to Napoleon’s bed, shaking out the blanket and smoothing it down before taking a seat. “I got her chocolates, of course. She likes them, and they have good ones here.”

Napoleon, not ready to discuss American candy again, nods. “Yes, that’s true. And very classy of you. I got her chocolate liqueur. You know, those round bottles with the gold wrap.”

Illya nods solemnly. “She’ll laugh, but she’ll appreciate the combination.” He fluffs Napoleon’s pillow.

“Oh, she absolutely will.” Napoleon stops fiddling with his cuffs and instead turns to his wardrobe. “Now, I said I had something for you, but it’s not –“ he hesitates, hand on the door of the wardrobe. “Well, it’s not flowers.”

“Good. I think we only have one vase.”

That makes Napoleon smile, the tension in his shoulders easing somewhat. He pulls the door open and slips his hand between two of his merino shirts, finds the little notebook. One last breath, then he pulls it out and turns, takes two steps towards Illya and extends his hand. “Here you go. Happy Valentine’s Day.”

It’s a black, fabric bound notebook, and the sight of it dwarfed by Illya’s hand makes Napoleon second-guess his decision violently. “I – Listen, I know you’re not big on expensive presents, right? So I thought, right, I thought to myself ‘Peril likes to read’, right? And so I, you know, collected a few poems.” It sounds weird, now that the word is out.

And maybe it _is_ weird. But unfortunately, the thought hadn’t occurred to him when he’d gotten the notebook, and when he’d spent a few evenings collecting ideas, and when he spent some more nights writing the poems into the notebook, and oh, oh Lord. For a second, Napoleon wants to snatch the thing right out of Illya’s hands and tell him it was a joke, laugh it off, ‘Sorry, old friend, I guess I just forgot to get you something-‘

But Illya is looking at him, and now Napoleon is looking back at Illya, and there’s a moment of silence between them. Silence, and Illya’s blue eyes, and the scent of the roses he got him, and the meaning _doesn’t_ change. Red roses are still red roses and a notebook filled with handwritten love poetry is still a notebook filled with handwritten love poetry.

“Thank you,” Illya says, and his voice sounds a little odd. Napoleon doesn’t even attempt to reply, just nods and makes a helpless little sound.

“I’ll – “ Illya flips it open, gives Napoleon an inquiring look.

“Yes, sure, go ahead. I mean – It’s yours, I – yeah. Look at it.” Napoleon tries a smile and is glad he can’t see himself. 

Illya looks at the book, at the little index Napoleon made, and Napoleon turns, suddenly embarrassed by his own handwriting. It’s perfectly neat, at least the Latin letters, but now that Illya is reading it, it’s too much. Too intimate.

“Is fourteen, yes?”

“Oh, yeah. You know, because of today. I thought it was a nice number.” I+L+L+Y+A+N+A+P+O+L+E+O+N are thirteen letters, so Napoleon added another one, a little extra, heart-shaped poem, to make it less of a bad-luck number. He sniffles.

For a moment, they stand in silence once again, Illya reading, Napoleon looking at the roses, trying not to read into that too much. But then, Illya straightens a little and carefully closes the notebook. “You have a good handwriting.”

“Oh, thank you. I wasn’t sure about the Cyrillic.”

“No, it’s good. But I think poetry can’t be compared to prose.”

“No, of course not.” Napoleon watches Illya’s expression carefully, unsure.

“So. I do like prose. It’s good to clear the head, it’s very calming. Very solitude. But poetry is different.” Illya pauses, but Napoleon doesn’t dare say anything, so he keeps talking. “It’s not for reading alone, I think. It’s no fun that way. So if you’d come, have a walk with me? Maybe read to me? Now?”

Something blooms in Napoleon, something rose-sweet and warm. He bites his cheek, but can’t bite back his smile. When he sees the warmth in Illya’s eyes, the little twitch in the corner of his mouth, he stops trying.  
“Now?”

“Yes. We can have breakfast in a café. They make good coffee here.”

“Yes, they do.”

It’s not quite champagne-bubbly, truffle-sucking. But it’s hot-strong coffee and dark chocolate, wooden benches at window seats while outside, the masses clad in long wool coats and leather jackets rush past in waves of Jil Sander and Hugo Boss. 

And Illya next to him, their thighs brushing under the table and his hand warm on Napoleon’s arm, his hand. Napoleon wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! This was very self-indulgent.  
> Also I was briefly tempted to set this in my own hometown, but then decided to make it Berlin as to not out myself .-.  
> It made me miss Berlin very much, though. 
> 
> While we're at it - English isn't my mother tongue, so please, if you see any mistakes, don't hesitate to alert me! :)  
> (Dreizehn is just Thirteen in German.)
> 
> This is part of my "oh wow let's write 5 Valentine's Day drabbles in 3 days" ..event (?) and thus I didn't have time to do research and research the thirteen/fourteen poems Napoleon collected for Illya, but I'm tempted to do so in the following days. If you're interested, you can come and poke me about it on my [writing tumblr](https://typinggently.tumblr.com/) :)
> 
> Also it's entirely possible that I'll add more notes here. I am currently buzzing with "leet's get this bread" energy, trying to finish all my drabbles. Whoo.
> 
> Again - thank you so much for reading, and Happy Valentines Day!!!  
> (if you enjoyed it, a heart would be very topical and super appreciated :') )


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